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I feel like I’ve reached the limit of what my human brain can know at one time, and anything else I put in will mean something of the same out will be taken out. So then I ask questions like do I really want to learn physical chemistry? I might lose half of myself -_- A lot of philosophy I’ve known has already gotten knocked out. What’s next! The Wasteland? Nietzsche?

What if you could write a poem
that spoke out, like a minnow swims in a stream

It’d be unimportant, thriving in some
hidden place, like the minnow a little creek
at the back of a suburb—no fame would come of it
No mind would care about it

But it’d be sincere, like the minnow caught in the water,
little leopard spots of sunlight on it
in the autumn afternoon,

Maybe it’d be the truest expression of
the human experience yet, and it’d be all
the more true because it was unknown, written by some
bad amateur poet, who had few friends—
whose dreams had been all thwarted and who
was losing him or herself to the requirements of daily life

Their purpose edging away like the minnow’s life, in the oncoming
Autumn, the cooling water, the emptying landscape
the shortening of days

What if once a day each of us was required to say something magical which opened the world up for everyone.

I feel like the reality of our society is advertisements, what it should be is song.

Heard some guys talking about my co-worker’s tits and ass right after she walked away yesterday. Jesus Christ. Why do guys appropriate women’s bodies, even when women are just living life and not asking for it at all. What’s wrong with us.

It’s like guys just take something really opaque, that says very little about the complexity of who someone actually is, and they mistake that for individuality.

People aren’t appearances, things aren’t symbols.

There’s depth there, uncountable stories and meaning. It’s wrong to just talk about someone as if they were a nice pair of titties or a round ass, because it does violence to all of the complexity, just like cutting down a forest to have flat land to build on does violence to the incredible biological complexity (a complexity which outstrips any human mind, and which formed slowly over billions of years): the incredible amount of biological information that is there in the trees, in the animals and insects and climate.

It’s like in thinking that way, in making those comments, they did violence directly towards her, breaking up some of what holds the world together, but in so doing they also harmed themselves, because by refusing to acknowledge the individuality of another person, they made it harder for them to recognize themselves in turn.

Do I do this? Am I any better?

Maybe I do it less; maybe I am a little better. I am still a human being, and  have sex in me, but I like to say think its sincere (open)—just lay it all out: Here is my humanity, in all of its imperfections, unfolding like long grass along a creek, angled every which way, vague, and messy. So maybe that makes it better, my male gaze, which watches like a hawk surveys the landscape for any hare, because it lacks the pretension of being anything else. And maybe, I hope, my desire for truth and for knowledge cuts through to the core of things well enough to keep me from being cold, indifferent, inhuman.

Looking out the lenses of a microscope 
(I feel like a 19th century explorer—)
Down on a field of erythrocytes whose 
red globular dots span the horizon like 
geographical features do a view from a mountain 
The feeling that I get, is no different from when
I see pictures of the Earth from space, from 
some NASA mission that occurred decades ago—
when cosmic perspective was caught in the 
reaction of photons and chemicals in paper, like
a breath of someone you loved caught, if it could be caught,
in a glass vial, forever to be held close
to the heart—The mind is a rolly-polly, crawling
over time and experience, but most of the time
we’re stuck in a small piece of turf, a small cutting of grass
or twigs or bushes—loamy but parochial; 
Seeing something really small like RBCs or really big
Like the Earth from space, can give us the experience
of crawling over a thousands turfs, over a thousand lifetimes 
And that experience says only one thing: 
You are alive! You are alive!
You are alive! And fuck the rest, the rules, the 
Procrustean ways in which we trap one another 
hurt each other, make each other afraid. Poetry!
Poetry! Poetry! Art! Art! Art! Dance! Sing! A procession of 
feelings, that make you want to burst from your shell 
into pure living—That’s what’s beneath the surface;
That’s the deep truth, the hidden truth: Be! Be! Be!
Thousand complexities like the curlicues of vapor 
off an airplane’s wing, winding around molecules 
and making them sing!


The Great Turf, by Durer.


September 14, 1966 — Backdropped by the magnificent planet Earth, the Gemini 11 Agena Target Vehicle is tethered to the Gemini 11 spacecraft. One of the main objectives of the mission was to rendezvous two objects in space, a major step toward the subsequent Apollo missions when the Command/Service Module docked with the Lunar Module after it landed on the Moon. (NASA)


Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, In Bed and In Bed: The Kiss 1892-93